#season of Easter
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âThe Towerâ based on Psalm 148 and John 20:1-28
You know that saying about how people need to hear things seven times before it sinks in? This is a sermon that I've preached before â kinda. I've preached the main idea of it, but it is a BIG HUGE IDEA, and it turns out that one time through it didn't manage to get it to sink in â not even for the nerdiest among you. Truthfully, I'm still working on letting it sink in for ME. So, I'm going to go over the idea of âMary the Towerâ again. It fits: our scripture, the We Cry Justice Reading today, our values as a church, the needs we have to see hope in the world, and the need for changes within the church at large.
Recent scholarship reveals that there is an textual error in John 11 and 12. John 11 is the story of the rising of Lazarus, which we have known in in our Bibles as the story of the sisters Mary and Martha and their grief over their brother Lazarus. The scholarship shows that there is not, in fact, a Martha. Someone changed the text.1
The relevant parts are now known to read:
Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and HIS sister MARY. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, âLord, he whom you love is ill.â But when Jesus heard it, he said, âThis illness does not lead to death; rather it is for Godâs glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.â Accordingly, though Jesus loved MARY and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.
⌠then Jesus debates with his disciples and finally shows up...
When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to MARY console HER about HER brother. When MARY heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him. MARY said to Jesus, âLord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.â Jesus said to her, âYour brother will rise again.â MARY said to him, âI know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.â Jesus said to her, âI am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?â She said to him, âYes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.â
⌠Jesus raises Lazarus, and the plot to kill Jesus strengthens...
Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. MARY served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesusâ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, âWhy was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?â (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, âLeave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.â
Great, now you've heard the story as it is believed to have been written. All Mary. One sister of Lazarus, who is the one who claims Jesus as Messiah. She is the first one to say so in John. And then she prepares him for his burial.
Now, it is NOT clear for sure if Mary of John 11 and 12 is Mary Magdalene of John 20, but it has long been assumed to be, especially now that scholarship has figured out something about the name Mary Magdalene. Namely, it isn't that Mary is from Magdala, because such a place doesn't exist. Instead, Magdalene is a title. Magdala means âtowerâ in Araemic. So, kinda like Peter becomes âthe rockâ after he says Jesus is the Messiah in the other gospels, Mary gets a title change after she says he is the Messiah in John. She becomes Mary the Tower. Mary Magdalene. Mary the Tower.
So then, Mary the TOWER is back again in John 20. Now you may remember that the Gospel of John is associated with the disciple John, who is throughout the book of John called âthe beloved disciple.â And in John there is some tension between John and Peter that sounds a whole lot like later communities of faith arguing over who was better. This culminates in the Easter morning footrace between them, the one John wins but shows that Peter is braver? Yes, that ridiculous footrace.
But, the funny thing is, that given the rest of this information it seems like John and Peter were racing for second. Mary already say that Jesus was the Messiah. She saw him as he was. Mary already saw the stone had been removed. She saw. And the first appearance of the post-resurrection Christ was to Mary. She saw. She who came to know his resurrection because she heard her name on his lips. She who then was the first to tell the disciples, âI have seen the Lord.â She saw.
ONE person. The one who saw him raise Lazarus and saw him raised. The witness to the power of God over even death itself.
And, friends, a WOMAN.
We are not simply the recipients of tradition built on the power of men, even if this information has been obscured since 200 CE. Peter and Mary. Mary and Peter. The tower and the rock.
The stories of women, which are the stories of Easter, are certainly worth hearing. They are the stories we struggle to make sense of because there is too much hope and goodness in them. We're tempted to turn away.
But, Mary the Tower keeps us both grounded and able to see beyond the walls that hold us in. The church founded by Jesus is a radical one where the least, the last, and the lost â the orphans, the widows, and the children have always been center stage. We know because it was the women who are rarely believed â the women who are often DENIGRATED AND DISMISSED (Mary Magdalene prostitution rumors anyone?) who are the ones to tell us the key stories.
Mary the Tower sent us, and she said there is hope, there is life, there is a God who cares. We, too, can see. Thanks be to God. Amen
1The story of how this was found is AMAZING, came to my attention via Diana Bulter Bass's Wilde Goose Festival Sermon which can be downloaded by clicking here: https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&rct=j&opi=89978449&url=https://dianabutlerbass.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/Mary-the-Tower.pdf&ved=2ahUKEwjGjMXKv7qFAxU6EFkFHcQdDb8QFnoECBUQAQ&usg=AOvVaw2qAIrS7kX87OxdrYJ1EDJB or watched here: https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&rct=j&opi=89978449&url=https://dianabutlerbass.substack.com/p/all-the-marys&ved=2ahUKEwjGjMXKv7qFAxU6EFkFHcQdDb8QFnoECAcQAQ&usg=AOvVaw24F4hwzT5F53i7I96ru9gi
April 14, 2024
Rev. Sara E. Baron First United Methodist Church of Schenectady 603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305 Pronouns: she/her/hers http://fumcschenectady.org/ https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady
#schenectady#progressive christianity#thinking church#fumc schenectady#first umc schenectady#umc#sorry about the umc#rev sara e baron#Season of Easter#Mary#Mary the Tower#mary magdalene#Tower People#Grounded and able to see
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Terry Pratchett painting in the Dirty Donkey pub â¤â¤â¤
#good omens#gos2#season 2#terry pratchett#terry pratchett easter eggs#easter eggs#s2 easter eggs#bts#bts photos#photos#fun fact#2ep2#2i2i7#terryyyyy#terry pratchett painting
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I don't of anyone has notice but there's an 'Amazing Mr.Fell" poster in the magic shop
Right over Crowley/David's shoulder
#good omens#crowley#ineffable husbands#aziraphale#david tennant#good omens 2#crowley x aziraphale#good omens season 2#micheal sheen#amazing mr.fell#magic shop#easter egg#bts#crowley good omens#aziraphale good omens#aziraphale is adorable#aziraphale is a magician
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Grey Matter in Episode 1 / Episode 3 of Dragula 666
#Dragula Spoilers#feel free to use these as reaction gifs#lgbt#lgbtedit#dragulaedit#Grey Matter#Dragula#Dragula Season 6#Dragula Season 666#The Boulet Brothers Dragula#Season 666#Easter Bunny#Halloween#My Gif#Gay#Queer#LGBT#horroredit#I love them so much#this excites me#also mood
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iâm sorry but KAOS is like a greek mythology fanfiction AU on steroids and i love her for it.
#KAOS#this series is so hilarious and irreverent#and intelligent#if you studied greek mythology is so fun to see all the different easter eggs#and the way they adapted different myths#i hope there is a season 2 because i have to see all the other children of zeus#netflix series#jeff goldblum#zeus#greek mythology#orpheus and eurydice#dionysus#hera#poseidon#hades and persephone#prometheus#the fates#the furies#the minotaur#ariadne of krete#cassandra
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Happy Easter
#it's always sunny in philadelphia#iasip#easter#happy easter#frank reynolds#its always sunny in philadelphia#guess who finally made it through all 15 seasons#has this been done?#i slept on this show for years so probably#whatever
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Happy TransVisibilityDay and Easter<33
#rottmnt#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#save rise of the tmnt#rise season 3#unpause rottmnt#rottmnt leo#samurai rabbit#trans visibility#easter#trans visibility day#leosagi#easter bunny usagi sdkfhdkfg#yuichi usagi
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Squid hand painting from Sandy's Rocket.
#spongebob squarepants#squidward tentacles#spongebob production art#painting#background#squidwards easter island head#spongebob season one#sandys rocket
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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter six)
18+ 4.6k. homelander x f!reader. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, abuse, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. gif credit | fic directory | AO3.
âYou must never run from anything immortal. It attracts their attention. Walk slowly, and pretend to be thinking of something else. Sing a song, say a poem, do your tricks, but walk slowly.â â The Last Unicorn
When he first moved into it, Homelander loved everything about his penthouse. Heâd given extensive feedback to the interior design team, even going so far as to offer crude sketches of what he wanted.
Heâd always had a specific vision for his home: spacious and open, but not vacant. Rich colors that wouldnât strain his eyes. Windows and mirrors that gave and reflected as much light and space as possible.Â
No white walls.Â
Not a single blank space.Â
He wanted art on the walls, but not just any art. He wanted historic portraits and moments of history. A face on every wall, the same way that the people on TV had pictures of people on their walls.
Pictures of their family.
He doesnât have a family, so familiar figures from his studies would have to do instead.
His favorite place was his bedroom. The mirrors give not only the illusion of space, but company.
To this day the bed is as plush as it was then. Itâs stacked with fluffy pillows, and the sheets are made of soft cotton. Theyâre always vibrant, always colorful. The staff washes them in gentle detergent instead of bleach.
He spent his first night in that bed with his face buried in the pillow just smelling it.
It smelled like home.
However, the longer heâs lived in his penthouse, the more the spaciousness of it began to feel like absence. The distinct lack of something that he couldnât quite put his finger on right away.
It eased on the odd occasion that he had company, but as soon as they were gone, it was as though their presence had carved out holes in his home that he couldnât fill.
He added statues. More portraits. He left the television running because the silence of his own isolation had become deafening. He started spending more time away. His home had gradually morphed from a place of freedom into a finely decorated version of the same horrible fluorescent box he spent his childhood in.
At least in the box heâd known there were people watching him. With him.
How heâd hated it back then. He hated how he could always hear the camera lenses adjusting as they monitored him from somewhere else.
It makes him sick to have missed it even a bit.
Thanks to you, he no longer has to.
Thereâs an inherent thrill to coming home that had been lost before you. Excitement starts to prickle up his spine as soon as he steps into the elevator and hits his floor. He canât remember the last time heâs been so excited to go home.
Every day this week youâve cooked for him, sat with him, laid in his arms, lived with him. In the last three days youâve come a long way from the timid thing you started as, no longer jumping at his every move. You still tense at his touch, but heâs willing to bet a few more of those massages will remedy that.
Your presence can be felt even when heâs at work. He recently connected the hidden security camera on his balcony to his phone, ensuring he gets pinged any time you open that door. He isnât worried about you going off unattended that way, given that itâs a hundred story drop.
It makes him smile to see you getting braver, occasionally stepping out onto the concrete to stare out across the cityscape. Soon heâs going to have to take you for that flight he promised.Â
While heâs spent these evenings with you blessedly free of obligations, tonight will be different. He has to leave, and he wonât be able to bring you with him. At least not yet. You arenât ready for that kind of exposure, nor what being revealed as his beloved would entail.
The media would eat you alive. He wonât subject you to them without proper preparation.
He isnât cruel.
Voughtâs hosting a gala that will serve as the early foundation of their campaign to move supes into the military, and as such, the U.S. Secretary of Defense will be in attendance, and itâs Homelanderâs job to convince the man of the innumerable benefits of the operation.Â
Ridiculous. He might as well try and argue the benefits of a smartphone to a fish.
If these people canât understand why having honest to god superheroes in their military is a good idea, he doubts anything shy of a hand delivered miracle from God would sway the morons.
Itâs just common sense, for fuckâs sake. War has only ever been a matter of who could bring the biggest gun. They will never find a greater weapon than him, much less a weapon that chooses to protect them.
However undeserving of it they may be.
He lets out a rough breath and shakes his head to knock loose the talking points that have been bashed into his skull over the course of the week, determined to leave work at the door.Â
âIâm hoooome,â he sings as he steps in through the doorway, the mechanism locking behind him with a soft beep.
It feels good to know youâre safe here. While he doesnât have enemies, per se, thereâs no telling what some lunatic could be driven to do if they knew about you.
âLiving room,â you call.
The familiarity of it makes him smile.
This is what coming home was always supposed to feel like.
He hums a little tune to himself as he walks, a slight bounce to his steps.
âSomething smells good,â he says as he rounds the corner, finding you curled up on the couch under a blanket.
Cute.
On the table across from you is a neat little stack of glass containers full of food. He cocks his head, pausing to pick one up for inspection. âYou meal planning out here or something?â
You slip out from under the throw and stand. Something is⌠off. He hears you picking your nails before he even looks at you, and when he does meet your gaze, thereâs a subtle apprehension youâre clearly trying to mask with a cordial smile.
âItâs just leftovers from lunch,â you say, eyes flickering from the container of food back to him. âHow was work?â
âThe usual,â he says a little curtly. Due to your unusual demeanor, heâs forgotten the laundry list of complaints heâd saved up at work with the intention of sharing with you.Â
In his experience, itâs rarely a good thing when people suddenly start behaving differently.
Especially when they try to hide it.
âSomething wrong?â He asks, giving the penthouse a cursory sweep. Everything looks to be in order.
Your eyes widen a fraction, but you catch yourself from looking overly surprised at being caught.
Gotâcha, he thinks. Heâs spent his entire life reading the subtleties in peopleâs body language, seeking out ways to understand the things they say when theyâre not speaking. The things they wonât say. Particularly to him.
âNo, no, nothingâs wrong. I just wanted to⌠I want to ask you for something,â you say, hands falling to your sides, your spine straightening.
His brows lift, his curiosity piqued. âSure. Fire away.â
Youâve been here for days, but you havenât made any requests of him despite his numerous offers. There isnât a thing in this world he couldnât obtain for you. Hell, he doesnât even care if itâs legal. Itâs about time you took him up on a little self-indulgence.
âDo you remember my friend John?â
His head gives a sharp little tic of a turn, his brows furrowing.
John.
He hates the effect hearing you say that name continues to have on him. It isnât as though he has a meltdown every time he hears the name John. That would be pathetic. Itâs the most common name in America, for fucks sake.Â
However, thereâs something particularly vile about hearing you say it with such gentleness.
âWhat about him?â He asks flatly, hackles rising. He was hoping youâd ask for something fun.
âIâm worried about him,â you say, clearly fighting to keep your tone even. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your pants.Â
He doesnât understand why youâre so nervous. It makes him suspicious. âAnd I donât want him to worry about me. Weâve had a routine for months. So I thoughtââ
âOh,â Homelander interrupts, setting the container of food back down as understanding dawns.Â
Theyâre scraps for your stray pet.Â
âNo problem, Iâll have someone take this to him,â he says, gesturing encompassingly towards the food.Â
âNo,â you say, the firmness in your voice catching him off guard. âI want you to take me, and I want to give it to him myself.â
He bristles, needles of suspicion creeping further up his spine. âWhy?â
Though youâre quick to swallow it back, he doesnât miss the flash of frustration in your eyes.
âYou said youâd take me anywhere I wanted to go. Were you lying?â
He lifts his hand sharply enough to make you flinch, his index finger pointing only inches from your face.
âDonât you ever call me a liar,â he says slowly, fist curled so tightly that the leather of his gloves groans in protest. âI didnât say no, I asked you why.â
Your eyes are wide, your heart drumming loudly in his ears. He hates that look of fear, the look that tells him youâre waiting for him to hurt you when heâs never done anything of the sort.
You have no right to look at him like that.
âBecause I want to. I want to see him, and make sure heâs okay, and because⌠because I wantââ You stop mid sentence and break eye contact, pressing the back of your hand to your opposite cheek. You take in a slow breath to compose yourself.Â
With a start, he realizes your eyes are welling with tears.
âI want to say goodbye.â
At a loss, Homelander stares for a long moment. For the life of him, he cannot fathom how this little charity schtick could possibly be so important to you. Isnât he enough for you?
Youâve been spending your days carefree in domestic bliss, yet here you are crying because you arenât taking a box of food to some bum. Itâs baffling enough to give him a migraine.
On the other hand, it was that persistent nurturing that drew his eye to you. If not for your diligent care, he may not have seen the same potential in you. He likes that you care. He just wants you to care for him.
He lets out a long-suffering sigh.
âDonât cry,â he says, voice full of his exasperated bewilderment. He lifts both hands in a placating show of surrender. âFine, fine, Iâll take you, and you can do whatever it is you need to do.â
âThank you,â you practically sigh. Your hand drops from your face and you look at him with palpable relief, your lips spreading into a faint smile. He likes your smiles. He likes being the reason for your smiles. That, at least, comes as a slight boon.
He clicks his tongue, observing you for a moment before he blows out a raspberry. He cups either side of your face, stepping in close to you.
âI hate it when you make me take a tone with you, you know,â he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. Your breath catches. âYou should know by now that I canât say no to you.â
His thumb strokes your cheek. Heâs been gentlemanly in your time here, accepting of your hand in his, your lips on his cheek. When he wakes up hard as a rock with your body pressed to his, heâs taken care of himself in the bathroom. Frankly heâs been more than a gentleman; heâs been a fucking saint.
âIâm downright pussy whipped, and I havenât even gotten any yet,â he huffs through a little laugh, almost close enough to taste your lips.Â
He hasnât felt your lips on his since that night in your apartment. He wants them exactly as they had been. Pliant and without tension or fear, yet still you tense as he holds you close. You place your hands on his chest and though you donât push him away, theyâre braced to prevent him moving closer.
Thereâs a faint tremble running through you.
âDonât tell me youâre still scared of me,â he says, offering you the sharp edge of a smile. He means for the words to sound playful, but even he canât deny that thereâs an underlying ache. Insecurity and impatience in equal measure.
Canât you see how good heâs been for you? Heâs had enough of having to beg for and pry every scrap of affection in his life from reluctant hands. All he wants isâfor once in his lifeâto be freely offered tenderness.
âYour strength scares me,â you eventually admit, palms flat against his chest, stare focused on the backs of your hands.
He tips your head back, coaxing your downcast gaze up to meet his. The closeness of you makes your eyes look large and deer-like: a prey animal that recognizes its hunter.Â
âItâs unreal, I feel like Iâm notâŚI feel like Iâm made of glass when you touch me.â
As a boy he snapped bones as easily as other children snapped twigs. He cradles your skull knowing exactly how much force it would take to crack it.Â
Youâre right to feel the extent of your own fragility in his hands.
âI wonât break you,â he says, the words little more than a breath.
âDo you promise?â you ask, your own voice barely a whisper.
âI promise.â Â
All those that have come before you have taught him his limitations. And yours.
With that, the tension in your arms softens a fraction. He takes a mile from the inch you give, moving to encircle you in his arms. You slide your hands up his chest in turn, moving over his shoulders, around his neck. The way your fingertips settle on the nape of his neck feels like heaven.
Pressing his forehead to yours, he closes his eyes. He listens to the tempo of your heart gradually slow, settling like the wings of a bird finally accepting the safety and kindness of its cage.
Just then, ever so slightly, you tilt your head and lightly press your petal-soft lips to his. The shock of it knocks the wind from his lungs. Joy hits swiftly afterwards, sweeping through his body from his head to his toes. He kisses you in kind, his lips spread in a smile against yours.Â
Thisâmore than any kill or record breaking profit for Voughtâfeels like a victory.
He cups the back of your head as he savors you, branding the memory of your yielding lips against his into his mind. You move to pull back, but his yearning is a beast he cannot tame, and itâs the beast in him that holds you still, intent to relish the kiss just a second more, which becomes just a moment more.
Trapped, you slide your fingers up into his hairline, combing through his sheared undercut into the longer blonde locks. You send a jolt through him when your fingers tighten suddenly, pulling his hair taut between them.Â
The sensation shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. His stomach flips, suddenly aflutter with butterflies. He makes a noise against your mouth, which regrettably makes you stop, your fingers going slack in his hair.
It doesnât hurtâyou donât have the strength necessary to hurt himâbut he can still feel it, and it feeds a gnawing hunger in him to be made to feel anything at all.Â
âDo that again,â he says between fervent presses of his lips. âFeels good.â
To his delight you slip both hands into his hair and grip it, eliciting a low moan.
Fuck.
He could get lost in this. In you.
Your pulse has kicked back up, but so has his. Your heartbeats dance with one another as you kiss, drowning out the rest of the world. He moves from your lips to your jaw, your throat, peppering hungry kisses down your neck, ignoring the tension he can feel building back up in you.
He could make your whole body sing if youâd just let him.
Your hands move from his hair, pressing once more to his chest. With how weak you are, it takes him a beat to realize youâre actually pushing against him.
An impatient little growl escapes him. He holds you in place, too deep into it to let you go now.
You suck in a shuddering breath, pushing harder. âHomelanderââ
His teeth graze your pulse point, and his tongue presses in to taste the rapid flutter of it. The taste of you is intoxicating, your skin salty-sweet.
Do you know his taste yet? Do you crave it the way he craves yours?
Thereâs fear in you but thereâs desire there, too. He can feel it in the way your skin warms under his touch, hear it in the quiver of your breath, and smell it in the heat between your legs.Â
âWait, wait, justâwould you just waitââÂ
He exhales roughly and pulls sharply back, leveling you with a harsh stare.
âWhat? What! You kissed me, remember? So which is it; do you want me, or do you just want to be a fucking tease?â
He feels his desire like a longstanding hunger heâs only just become aware of. A painful, gnawing thing that demands he sink in his claws and rip, devour, relish. Heâs been so good in all of this that one little taste was all it took for the feel of it to come crashing down on him.
For as badly as he wants you, he wants so fucking badly for you to want him, too.
The look of you is one for the history books. Flushed and wide-eyed, youâve taken his words with a shock like youâve been slapped. Your hair is mussed from his hand pushing against it, into it. Your lips are kiss bitten and shiny, plump with all that blood rushing to the surface.
It makes him want to bite them, bruise them, claim them.Â
Those same lips open and close as you struggle to form a response before eventually settling on one.
âIâm sorry.â
He recoils from that, features twisting up in displeasure.Â
No, no, no.
âIâm sorry, I justââ
âShut up,â he snaps, letting go of you. He screws his eyes shut, not understanding how he got from where he was a moment ago to where he is now.Â
All that sweet delicious heat is fading away, leaving him feeling emptier by the second, his skin prickling uncomfortably under his suit.Â
He would be clawing at it if he could.
âI donât want you to be sorry,â he says, hitting the word like a hiss. âI want you toâI want youââ
I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.
He pushes his hands into his hair, gripping the short strands tight enough to ache, digging for pain so that it might bring him clarity and stop the terrible repetition his mind has latched onto. He can imagine so clearly how things should be, what you should be saying, feeling, and Iâm sorry is nowhere in that vision.
He hates that word. It echoes in his psyche like a curse, dragging him back by the throat to the only stretch of time in his life he ever felt weak enough to say it.
Back then, in his days in the lab, Vought was always testing the boundaries of how human he really was. At one point, when he was still a boyâmaybe eleven or twelveâthey began to reduce his sleep by an hour every few nights.
Each day they would repeat the same grueling tests to see at what point the lack began to affect not only his cognitive abilities, but his powers. Given the sheer amount of Compound V in his system, there were some who wondered if he really needed to sleep at all.
It would have been miraculous if he didnât. It would be one more aspect of his perfect design that they could pat themselves on the back for.Â
Unfortunately for both him and them, it was not so.
When they realized the deprivation did affect him, they wanted to understand how badly. They continued to deprive him until they had reduced his sleep to nothing at all, keeping him awake by any means necessary for days. He begged for sleep.Â
Itâs a marathon, John, Vogelbaum told him. Eleven days. Thatâs the record for a human. You can beat that, canâtâcha, tiger?
Tiger. It always made him feel stronger when Jonah called him that.
Ultimately it was less about his perseverance and more about his endurance. He didnât have much choice in the matter of whether or not he would fall asleep.Â
Every time he started to doze off, an alarm would blare in his room, startling him back awake.Â
Iâm sorry, he would sob, riddled with guilt for the failure.
There was never any answer.
When it was over and neither he nor the scientists had anything to show for itânothing but misery and a newfound insomniaâhe decided he would never be sorry for anything ever again.
His temples are throbbing, his skull aching from the pressure of his own strength.Â
Though his eyes are tightly shut, he can feel the searing heat of his laser vision pressing against his eyelids.Â
It makes him want to scream, to run, to fly, to break apart everything around him, but he canât. Heâs too powerful to ever allow himself a physical outlet.
When the average man throws a punch to blow off steam, at worst theyâll put a hole in the wall.
Homelander could punch through to the core of the planet.Â
Maybe he could split the whole damn thing in half. Heâs never been allowed to find out.
Instead, he focuses it all inward. He swallows the feelings like bile and fights not to choke on it, on the tension of his own impossible power straining his muscles. He canât hear your heartbeat anymore, itâs drowned out by his own blood rushing in his ears.
Or itâs not there at all.
Youâve fled, he realizes. His stomach churns, and still his mind is on a punishing loop of all the things he has ever wanted that he cannot accept heâll never have.Â
I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want.
Anger surges through him and the heat of it is painful, twisting all his already tautly wrung innards and flushing them with fiery rage.
Sheâs not sorry. She has no idea the fucking meaning of it. If she wants to know what itâs like to be sorry, then weâllâ
Arms slip around his neck, and suddenly his mind hits a deafening quiet.
What?
The feeling is so alien to him that it takes several seconds to understand that itâs you. That youâre here. That youâre⌠holding him.
Faintly he feels the tug of your meager strength, and he leans into it, his cheek coming to rest on your chest, head tucked under your chin.
He opens his eyes, the world still awash in the crimson glow of his lasers, and he feels you flinch at the sheer heat of them. He works to blink the light away, his hands resting on your hips, gripping at the fabric of your pants.
âYouâre still here,â he says, voice frayed with confusion and steadily ebbing tension.Â
âYes.â
âI thought I was alone.â
âYouâre not.â
Gently, you comb your fingers through his hair. He doesnât need his super senses to know your heart is pounding. He can feel the hammering pulse of it against his cheek.
Your fear is so tangible he can practically taste it, but he wouldnât know it existed at all if he went only on the way youâre holding him.
How is it you can be so afraid and yet feel so firm against him?
âItâs okay,â you whisper, a faint tremble in your otherwise firm voice. âYouâre not alone.â
Tears sting his eyes. He moves his grip from your hip to the fabric at your back, your shoulder, his hands climbing your clothes with a clawing desperation to ensure every bit of you is real and within his reach. He envelops you in his arms and nuzzles you, exhaling another breath of the terrible miasma that had built up like sulfur in his lungs.
You move your other hand in soothing patterns between his shoulder bladesâjust as you had beforeâand with every repetition of the pattern he feels the rage, the pain, the fear, the misery of it all drip away, like a wet cloth being wrung dry.
The two of you stand like that for a long while, focused only on the sound and feel of the other. The burn in the back of his throat and in his eyes fades. By the end of it, he feels heavy with the exhaustion of holding back the weight of his own might.
Slowly, he lifts his head to meet your gaze. Youâre somehow even more beautiful than you had been. Your edges are frayed, and though there is lingering fear, it doesnât repulse him to see it.
Because you stayed.
Your fingers slip from his hair, moving to his face. It isnât until your thumb moves through the wetness on his cheek that he realizes a tear had escaped the burn of his lasers and streaked down his face.
âI didnât mean to upset you,â you tell him, and to his own pleasure, he believes you.
âHey, hey, itâs alright. I know you didnât,â he says, cupping your face in turn. He brings you forward and presses a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.Â
Heâs in control again, and he speaks as if that were always true.
âJust like I know youâll make it up to me.â
He draws away with a crooked smile, the episode fading to a distant corner of his mind as he puts the fractured pieces of himself back into something cohesive. He strokes your cheek, admiring your features. Your eyes.
In hindsight, itâs strange to think that heâs always thought of you as the sweet, doting little rabbit to his wolf.Â
Staring at you now, heâs sure heâs looking into the eyes of a fox.Â
âCâmon,â he says, siding his hands down your shoulders so that he can take hold of your wrists, guiding you towards the balcony. âItâs about time I take you for that flight I promised.â
Wouldnât want to keep John waiting for his meal any longer.
( chapter seven )
#some of my seasoned readers might recognize an easter egg from another fic in here#it fit so well that i had to use it!#anyways i cut it a little close on finishing this one today#the end took a WAY different direction than i anticipated and it took awhile to get the tone and pacing right#but i really hope you enjoy it!#homelander x reader#homelander x you#x reader#homelander fanfiction#my writing#yandere boyfriend#yandere x reader
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Here's the piece I did for Seasonal Riffs! My prompt was Fall- I had a lot of fun throwing in as many small details as I could!!
#hehe let me know which easter eggs you spot#metalocalypse#my art#toki#nathan explosion#pickles#pickles the drummer#skwisgaar#skwisgaar skwigelf#toki wartooth#murderface#william murderface#seasonal riffs zine#dethklok
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Finally finished picking at this one :) all three kisses in S3 P1 are so Iconic in their own ways, but this is THEE Kiss imo
If I had a nickel for every time I re-hashed this specific painting--
More versions and close-up under the cut! Click for better quality! Y'all know the drill :)
A nice juicy closeup :) the linework was super fun, but definitely got a little lost in the big picture
And a few different versions - moon+lamps, just moonlight, and just flat. I couldn't decide which one I liked best, so I'm posting them all lol
Thanks for looking this far! May we all be strong enough to last until P2.
#bridgerton#penelope featherington#colin bridgerton#polin#bridgerton s3#bridgerton fanart#my art#illustration#artists on tumblr#nicola coughlan#luke newton#ms nicola was right this season is for the hopeless romantics (me)#I threw in a few easter eggs for my own amusement teehee#my useless take is that colin should have kept the bandage longer#bonus points if he kept it way after his hand was healed (to ya know remind him of his very dear friend)#I thought about making this into a mock book cover with the title and everything but alas I am lazy haha
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(Reece Shearsmith (Furfur) and Steve Pemberton (Mr Glozier - one of the Nazis) made together a brilliant (if a bit disturbing :D) tv series called Inside No. 9)
#good omens#inside no 9#gos2#season 2#photos#bts photos#bts#hq photos#reece shearsmith#hell#fun fact#:D#easter eggs#s2 easter eggs#inside no 9 easter egg
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#April#spring#springtime#cozy#cottagecore#Easter#Happy Easter#Easter eggs#seasons#countryside#cottage
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Natural Easter Egg dyes...
#Ostara#Easter#Natural Easter Egg Dyes#natural dyes#colour my world#tis the season#wheel of the year#easter#easter eggs
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Details, details, details!
In Bridgerton season 3 episode 2 Portia Featherington is seen reading a copy of Lady Whistledown
I got curious about if they actually fill the pamphlets with real pieces of additional writing (they do albeit the occasional repetition to fill space!) and stumbled on a cool little Easter egg in the third full paragraph in the second column on the left page (or the back page of the issue)
It says:
âThe scandal shook the ton significantly, but also somehow recharged the thick atmosphere that has been building up the last weeks, much like some much anticipated thunderstorm would release the pressure that this unbearable heat has been building up in the air of this town. One can only hope.â
From a foreshadowing standpoint, the idea of thunderstorms and release can be seen as referencing the arguments and resolutions of the grievances between Penelope, Colin, and Eloise at the center of focus for this season.
However, this metaphor is further reflected by the title cards of the opening credits!
The default title card is a sunny dayâŚ
But, in episodes 5 and 7, the title card is instead of a stormy day!
These title cards come directly after pivotal discussions about the main conflicts; Eloise discussing Colinâs lack of knowledge about Penelopeâs work as Lady Whistledown despite their engagement in episode 5 and Colinâs discovery of her work in episode 7.
It really shows the attention to detail being put in and itâs very fun and satisfying to see this seemingly small metaphor come together throughout the season!
#bridgerton#Bridgerton season 3#bridgerton s3#bridgerton spoilers#Bridgerton season 3 spoilers#Bridgerton Easter egg#Easter egg#penelope featherington#penelope bridgerton#eloise bridgerton#colin bridgerton#polin#Colin#Penelope#Eloise#lady Whistledown
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